


Five Times Lizzie Saved Tommy’s Heart from Breaking and the One Time He Saved Hers (and Broke It Again The Same Day)

by bornof_sorrow (wintersfire)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Light BDSM, Past Character Death, Past Prostitution, Period Typical Attitudes, Rough Sex, Spanking, Spoilers, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersfire/pseuds/bornof_sorrow
Summary: Spoilers for series threeTommy said it himself: ‘…because some nights, it was you, that stopped my heart from breaking. No-one else.’ Lizzie saved Tommy's heart from breaking at least five times...





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after watching the series three finale because Tommy’s speech about Lizzie made me do it. In honour of a forthcoming series four, I’ve posted it. The show timelines are probably all over the place because I’m making a lot of this stuff up. Un-beta’d, please forgive any remaining errors. 
> 
> Please heed trigger warnings, I don't want to cause anyone distress. 
> 
> Only chapter three has smut, but rated explicit for bad language and adult themes throughout.
> 
> Sadly, I own nothing and profit not at all.

The day that Grace died in Tommy’s arms Lizzie slipped back to The Big House (she knew it had a name but that was the way she always thought of it) while Ada dealt with the mayhem and Polly wailed over Tommy and Charles.

On the journey in one of the work cars, Lizzie smoked cigarette after cigarette, even as the nicotine made her stomach churn and she had to pull over and rest her head against the wheel, huffing breath in and out through her nose. She stared at the windscreen, trying not to see (over and over again) the blood sink down through the silk of Grace’s dress and the horror on every face as they realised what had happened. 

When she reached the house she could see Mary through the open curtains turning on the lamps. Mary stopped what she was doing and Lizzie watched her move through room and hall to the door, alerted by the crunch of the tyres on gravel. There was a bonfire somewhere, someone was burning leaves beyond the hedge; Lizzie could hear the horses in the stable snicker and whinny, unsettled.

By the time Lizzie had stepped out of the car and walked the few feet to the door Mary’s welcoming smile had slid from her face. Lizzie shook her head and Mary covered her mouth with her hands as if she was trying to keep the questions she wanted to ask in her head. Lizzie knew how she felt. She didn’t want to know that Grace was dead, didn’t want to think what that death would do (was doing) to Tommy and little Charles. 

‘Mary, Grace is gone, killed. I can’t talk about it now.’ Lizzie grabbed Mary by the upper arms as she started to cry with shock. ‘Mary! Mary, stop, not now Mary. Come on, there’s things to do.’ Lizzie gave Mary a small shake, bringing her attention back to the moment. Mary nodded and wiped at her eyes with her linen apron and squared her shoulders. She looked at Lizzie expectantly.

Lizzie walked past her from the twilight into the swell of lamplight to drop her hat, bag and keys onto the table beside the door. Mary followed at her heels, sensible black shoes tip tapping into the silence. 

‘Get a basket from the laundry Mary. Go through the rooms down here. Pick up anything of Grace’s and put it all somewhere. Put it somewhere safe where he won’t see it, we can sort it all out properly later.’

‘Yes, Miss.’ 

Mary turned and went off to do as she was told. She was a good woman was Mary. She wasn’t part of things but you couldn’t help noticing what Tommy was about, and Mary had the sense to keep her thoughts to herself. She was half in love with Tommy, like – weren’t they all? Lizzie knew the signs, she’d seen them often enough, knew them inside out. Unlike the rest of them (and Lizzie knew herself to be in this unflattering group), Mary had the good sense to not be a fool. Mary showed her feelings in keeping his home spic and span, feeding him up and making a fuss of Charles. Wise woman. Mary got all the satisfaction she’d ever get from Tommy in those simple ways and Tommy got another loyal follower who thought – despite all the evidence to the contrary – that he walked on water. Lizzie forced back another wash of terror and shock and forced herself to think through what she had to do. She went up the stairs to Tommy and Grace’s room.  


Lizzie had been all over this house. Sometimes Tommy worked there for weeks at a time and Lizzie had a well–equipped desk in the small office near the kitchens. Tommy made use of the grand study with the view over the fields and Lizzie had run around after him enough times to know where she was heading. She’d even been in the room once or twice when Grace wanted to show her something wonderful that Tommy had bought her. Lizzie knew that Grace had been making a point when she did that but Lizzie had never let that kind of thing worry her. She had no envy of the woman who was Mrs Thomas Shelby. Never had, never would. Lizzie had never, even in her wildest imaginings, thought herself a rival to Grace.

These thoughts had taken Lizzie to the threshold of their bedroom and she paused, listening to the familiar sounds of the house, a house that would never be the same again. The heavy tock of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs and the whistle of the wind in the eaves sounded sad and lonely, but she pushed such thoughts aside and stepped into the room, smelling Grace’s perfume on the air. Lizzie lit a lamp and threw open a window, better Tommy or Charles smelt the bonfire than the whisper of Grace’s scent around the room. If Lizzie knew Tommy, (and Lizzie considered she knew Tommy very well), then she doubted that Tommy would come anywhere near this room for a while at least. She doubted that he’d come much into the house. But… if or when he did come Lizzie didn’t want him to see the half-slip of oyster satin that Grace must have tried on and hastily discarded that morning as she got ready. She didn’t want him to see the stocking peeping out of the nearly-shut drawer, the uncapped scent bottle and the loose powder, the puff still resting against the opened lid. So Lizzie went around the room, putting away make-up, sliding caps onto bottles and bottles on to fine silver trays on the dressing table, tucking away slips and stockings and sliding the stool under the niche of the dressing table. After a few minutes the room was put to rights, neat and tidy and blank, or as blank as it could possibly be without locking Tommy and Charles out of it.

Lizzie then stripped the bed and pillows, threw the bundle of laundry onto the landing and made her way to the linen cupboard near the service stairs. She selected a set of fresh pillowcases and sheets then returned to the bedroom and made the bed. She smoothed the bedcovers, plumped up the pillows and put the book that Grace had been reading in the drawer. After a final glance about the room, Lizzie pulled closed the sash window, turned off the lamp and pulled the door nearly to. She remembered when her mother had died, that somehow, a part-opened door was less daunting to go through than one which was simply shut. 

Lizzie walked away from the room, trying not to think about anything but helping Mary go through the rest of the house. She’d done what she could. She hoped it was enough. She knew it never would be.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning after Grace’s funeral Lizzie again drove out to the house. This time the sun was pale and distant in the pink-streaked sky as the wheels of the car crunched up the drive. Instead of parking outside the house Lizzie turned into the stables, leaving the car in a quiet corner out of the way. Then she took long strides to the kitchen to catch Mary.

Lizzie had woken early, washed quickly and put on an old dress that she kept for housework, covered her hair with a scarf and laced on a pair of old, sturdy, brown boots. Mary glance flicked over her as she went into the steamy, rich smelling kitchen. Lizzie usually prided herself in looking smart but there was no point today. She’d be out in the fields most like.

‘Morning Mary. Is he out?’ Lizzie leant against the enamel sink and watched Mary wipe her hands on a tea towel. 

‘Yes, Miss. Wouldn’t stay indoors. Won’t eat. I thought...I thought maybe a roast dinner but he won’t eat it. He’s living on whisky and cigarettes, God help him.’ Mary shrugged to signify the obvious nature of the statement. She stilled her hands and a furrow appeared on her brow.

‘Charles’s with him but it’s not good for him, Miss, he frets enough for the Missus. He needs his routine.’

Lizzie nodded, ‘I know, Mary, but he needs his father too.’ She left unspoken the mutual acknowledgement that Tommy needed Charles even more.  
Mary turned back to the work she was doing and the slab of rolled-out pastry on the table-top. She began to roll and turn the pastry all the while telling Lizzie how Tommy had slept outside with Charles in the caravan, the offers of food, drink, and advice all ignored.

After a few minutes when Mary had voiced her fears and opinions such that she trailed off and silence reigned over the bubbling pots and the homely room, Lizzie straightened up, all business. 

‘Mary, will you run him a bath? I’ll go and bring them in. If you’ll see to Charles I’ll deal with Mr Shelby.’ Mary nodded, bustling about, happy to have direction and orders.

Lizzie left her to it and went back out into the yard. The air was still cool but there was promise of sun and a day altogether too beautiful to hold such sadness. Lizzie pulled her cardigan across her chest and plodded through the damp grass towards the rise which hid the caravan from view. As she drew closer she could smell a fire and hear Charles chattering to himself. There was an occasional deeper tone as Tommy responded to his son but Lizzie couldn’t make out the words. She made sure she bashed along enough that he could hear her coming before she crested the hill and the van came into view, tendrils of smoke drifting in grey ribbons into the sky. 

Lizzie hesitated on the brow of the hill, momentarily uncertain. Then she heard Tommy’s voice and it pushed her forward.

‘Come if you’re coming Lizzie Starke. What does a man have to do to get away from interfering women?’ There was no lightness in the words and Lizzie could tell he’d probably never stopped drinking since the funeral. 

When he came into view Lizzie stopped her sharp inhale with a bite of her lip. He’d looked terrible ever since that awful day, looking worse every time she saw him, but the daylight threw the black under his eyes into clear relief and his always prominent cheekbones were steeples under his skin.

He looked away from her and watched Charles play. Lizzie went to Charles, held out her hand towards him and addressed Tommy.

‘I’ll take him into Mary, Tommy. He’ll need a wash and his bed. I’ll be back in a minute for you. There’s a bath running.’

Tommy shook his head as she walked back to the house with Charles but Lizzie had no intention of leaving him be.  
~~~~  
By the time she returned he was lying on his back, drunk, immeasurably sad, and wrapped up in his own mind. Lizzie put out the fire, threw the pots and blankets which lay across the grass back into the caravan and shut the door on it. She’d come back and sort the ‘van out later. 

She stood at his feet and looked down at Tommy. ‘Come on. I know you don’t want to come, and you know I don’t care what you want. Get up.’ Lizzie kicked the sole of his boots gently for emphasis. He couldn’t bear being prodded or poked and he twitched his foot away. She leant down and shook his shoulder.  
‘Come on Tommy. I haven’t got all day.’

He jerked his shoulder out of her reach and swore at her, grumbling, drunk and vile, under his breath, but in a way that Lizzie knew he intended her to hear. Lizzie had heard it all before from many men and many times from Tommy who liked a good swear when he was feeling badly done to. She couldn’t blame him for complaining but she gauged he was that stage of drunk where nothing made sense. He was almost stupefied, which was probably what he’d been aiming for. So she did something that she would probably never dare to do under any other circumstances: she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, catching his shirt, and probably some skin, in her grip and heaved him up. He stumbled and groaned, annoyed, and swiped at her with his open hand but she had expected that and jerked out of his way, dropping him back, hard, onto the ground. He turned onto his side and retched, spitting out bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Lizzie felt a flash of anger.

‘Tommy, get the fuck up off the floor. You’re a disgrace. D’you want anyone to see you like this? Polly and Ada will be here soon enough, if they see you like this they’ll move in and you’ll have more women in your house.’ 

She kicked the sole of his boot again, harder this time, and grit her teeth.

’Get up, come on.’ 

She kept on at him until he staggered to his feet and slid his arm across her shoulder to support himself. They started back to the house, Lizzie twisted under Tommy to hold him up, Tommy breathing sour whisky and cigarette fumes across her face.  
As they stumbled back to the house Tommy had bought for the love of his wife and son, Lizzie had only one thought in her head: ‘Still a fool Lizzie Starke, a right fool.’


	3. Chapter 3

The rain rattled against the tiles of the roof and distorted the view through the windows, late afternoon light lifting the gloom in a narrow swathe from the door to the desk. Lizzie could hear Tommy tapping his foot. He had been edgy, fidgety and quiet all day. When he’d bit Michael’s head off and told him to ‘Fuck off home, eh, Michael?’ Michael had turned abruptly, aggression and bad temper written across his body. (He was so bloody touchy, as if things weren’t bad enough. Heaven help her where young men had something to prove). Lizzie had caught his eye and with an exaggerated gesture towards the door warned him that now was not the time to prove to Tommy he was a man to be reckoned with. He’d gone out the door with a snatch at his suit jacket and a flip of his hat to make the point that he was doing Lizzie a courtesy by going, nothing more. 

That drama dealt with, Lizzie had made a cup of tea in silence, attuned to the tension emanating from Tommy. Usually, even lately, the silence soothed Tommy. A Tommy with few demands on him was the nearest he likely got to relaxed. Lizzie knew he was nowhere near what other people considered relaxed but, for Tommy, that was as good as it got. Well, as far as she knew. Lately she had been wondering what he had been like with Grace. There was no point at all to wonderings of that kind, but Lizzie couldn’t help it. When Grace was alive, Lizzie hadn’t tortured herself by watching Grace and Tommy too closely. She’d felt Grace’s measured consideration often and she knew her life wouldn’t be worth living if Grace decided that Lizzie was any kind of threat to her life with Tommy and Charles. Lizzie hadn’t given her so much as a sideways glance to provoke her jealousy, meaning Grace never went beyond the sharp looks. 

Lizzie wasn’t clear in her own mind whether that meant Grace was so sure of Tommy or so dismissive of Lizzie. 

Lizzie glanced up at Tommy, his tea next to his cigarettes on the desk, stone cold by now. He was watching her. He was leaning back in his chair with the fingers of one hand supporting his face, his arm braced against the armrest, staring. Lizzie felt a shiver of alarm skitter under her skin. She flicked her glance down to the desk to hide the urge to soothe her palm across her forearm where all the hairs had lifted slowly away from her skin. He was dangerous like this. There was no light in his eyes, only a feral gleam. She knew he was giving her a chance to say no. 

She took a moment and pressed her hand into the edge of her own desk, head down, watching without seeing the zig-zag print of her dress. Her mind worked furiously and she could see the date of the red letter calendar on her desk. Three months since Grace had gone. 

Her birthday. It was getting to her birthday. And Tommy was furious.

Lizzie knew what he was like, when he was like this. She had no illusions. She’d seen him like this before, when he’d come back from France, when time didn’t seem to put the war any further behind any of them. When the opium and the whisky and the violence didn’t bring relief. She took in a deep breath and lifted her head.

He wasted no time.

‘Get up Lizzie.’ 

She stood up, trying not to fidget or show fear. He was frightening her, he knew he was frightening her; but at the same time he was asking, pleading really, and she knew this dance with him. She knew he was at the edge of his control and if Tommy was out of control that was bad for everyone. But she was no martyr for the Peaky Blinders. This was something that had always been there between them.

‘Lock the door, then stand by the desk.’ His voice was flat and hard, brooking no argument. Well, Lizzie wouldn’t be giving him one. That’s not what he needed today. So, Lizzie did as she was asked. 

The rain was still rattling and the room was neither hot nor cold. Lizzie stood waiting, trying to breathe, her eyes held by him.

He watched her, the darkness filling his eyes and causing her breath to hitch slightly. He did not miss it. He walked slowly towards her, trailing his fingers with a light touch along the mahogany of his desk as he came closer. He stopped a foot away from her and shoved his hands into his pockets.

‘Fair warning Lizzie.’

She’d dropped her eyes to his chest, where it was easier to look at him. She forced her chin up and met his gaze. She nodded and deliberately leant back until her bottom rested on the edge of her desk, taking the weight of her frame. Then she slid her feet apart, widening the distance between her knees. Tommy’s hands came out of his pockets and he closed his eyes for a moment, but not before Lizzie had seen the flash of relief in his eyes.

Between one breath and the next, Tommy was on her, between her legs, his hips pressing into her thighs and his hands lifting her skirts to the edge of her knickers. He pushed his head into the gap between her head and her shoulder and Lizzie took a deep breath. She’d hardly exhaled when he pushed his hand into her knickers and into her heat, thumb opening her up, testing her. He muttered under his breath, ‘Good girl,’ but Lizzie knew he was talking to himself.

He flipped her and pressed her face down onto the desk with a strong, wide palm spanning the middle of her back. Lizzie took in air while she could then turned her head to rest against the leather blotter which cushioned her cheek against the wood.

‘Put your hands on the desk Lizzie. Don’t move them.’

Lizzie raised her arms and rested her hands on the flat of the desk, sliding them down until she was gripping the edge of the desk in her hands. She closed her eyes.

Tommy lifted his weight from her backside and Lizzie felt the relative cold of the air around her spread thighs. As Tommy moved, she heard the creak of his shoe leather and the click of his knee. One of Tommy’s legs clicked a little at the knee when he walked, probably some war injury, and you could hear it when it was quiet. The present quiet in the office was like a weight on both of them, so Lizzie could hear Tommy change his position. There was a beat of time when he was separated from her and she felt the loss of him at her back. The moment stretched and she knew he was deliberately holding back, making her wait and anticipate his touch. 

When it came it was delicious and Lizzie savoured it. His hands gripped her ankles and traced up her legs. They were warm and firm, shaping the narrow planes of her ankles and the long muscle of her calves and shins, around the back of her knees, causing a tremble in her muscles and a clench in her stomach, until they skimmed the slim arch of her thigh. His hand soothed up and down, alternating a long sweep, waving aside her skirts, with a curving stretch from front to back, until her skin was alive with sensation and her skirts were tipped back over her waist and held back by Tommy’s forearms against the desk. The clock ticked and the rain spattered. The moment stretched out. Tommy leant his body back into hers but held himself an inch or two back. Lizzie could feel the shadow of his touch along her spine, against the softness of her hips and the braced muscle of her legs. Lizzie breathed deeply and kept her eyes shut. Her thighs shook in the deep muscle.

‘You ready Lizzie?’ His voice was low, rough, and she imagined the blackness of his eyes, the pale blue swallowed by his hunger for this.  
Lizzie moved her head against the blotter, barely a movement at all but she knew he was watching avidly for her submission. His breath soughed into the silence as he read her nod.

Tommy soothed his hands along her arms and checked her hands were where he had put them. Then he tucked her skirts into her waistband, methodical and steady, Tommy’s anxiety receding as Lizzie’s built, that familiar wash of heat under her skin when part of her screamed at herself to run away but most of her wanted to stand her ground and feel, feel everything that he could give. Tommy slipped her knickers down and Lizzie lifted her feet, one after the other, to allow Tommy to kick them aside.

There was another suspended moment of stillness and Lizzie felt the clench of wanting in her gut. 

The first clout was hard, stinging, and her face moved up against the blotter, shifting forward with the momentum. The next slap was with the side of his hand and it brought fire and heat to her buttocks. He kept it up, one slap after another, more erratic than controlled at first, but full of intent and purpose, which was Tommy through and through. Lizzie drew half-breaths and gasps as she shuddered against the desk.

It felt like a long time, the pain building in stops and starts until Lizzie’s behind and the top of her thighs were pulsating, but it could not have been so long: Tommy only hurt her (physically) like this to a fixed point and no further. Even at the edge of his control he was capable of curbing himself, of reigning in his fury.

Lizzie imagined his narrowed eyes and his determined focus, making sure all of her skin was lit up with red pain. Her mind was reaching a blankness, too overwhelmed by sensation and instinct to sort out thoughts. Her head ached with the pounding of blood in her chest and the throb of pain from Tommy’s hand. She was flushed with anticipation. When Tommy physically dominated her, Lizzie felt the thrill of seeing him like this, displaying his feelings, mixed-dark, raw in his need. It was these moments that Lizzie drew heart and power from, his darkness laid bare alongside her own. She wanted to be needed and valued and this, in its own way, was as much a declaration of both as his daily commands and his overstepping in her life. Lizzie wanted Tommy and Tommy needed Lizzie. But it was more than that. If Arthur, back in the day, had ever done this, Lizzie would have been terrified. There were other men who had taken her rough and she had wanted to vomit. Her instinct told her that she meshed with Tommy and she didn’t analyse it further; all she knew was what would disgust her in other men, made her hot, slick and panting for Tommy. 

Lizzie could read Tommy’s intoxication with the moment in his laboured breathing, his exertion and the tumult of near-release. Lizzie had worked hard, absorbing his blows, smarting from heat and lust and the best part of their frenzy was still to come. Any moment now. Lizzie quivered, strained tendons vibrating with electricity from Tommy’s attentions. He stood up, toiling breath loud in the stillness and Lizzie heard the faint pluck of buttons as he readied himself. His hand swiped across her and he made a half-sound at the heat of her behind and the wet slick of her. He pushed in, on a breath, his hot exhalation whispered against her ear as he rested his head against her neck. She knew he was watching his dick enter her smooth and deep until they were cinched tight against the stout desk. They paused together, feeling everything they could.

Tommy pressed his closed lips against her damp nape and then slid his hands over hers, using the desk to lever himself up, hips moving steadily against her. The thing of it was, Tommy had a lot of practice with Lizzie. He had had her in most of the ways he could possibly have thought of (Lizzie knew there were a few things that other men wanted that would not cross his mind, because Tommy was Tommy and he had never measured himself against other men). He knew what she liked, hated or loved. Most of the time what mattered to Tommy, was what Tommy liked, hated or loved but still, over the years, they’d learned each other. Lizzie knew Tommy had his own reasons for everything, but part of this was Lizzie’s loyalty and silence. Lizzie was allowed past the defences he had built through calculation, ambition and control. Lizzie suspected Tommy thought Lizzie couldn’t hurt him, when in reality Lizzie wouldn’t hurt him. That bit of blind faith was everything to Lizzie. 

The noises from Tommy grew louder as he plunged into her, grunts torn from him with exertion and Lizzie felt turned inside out. Tommy slid one arm under her and pulled her back towards him, as deep as he could go. He growled into her ear ‘Yes.’ Lizzie shivered. Tommy groped her breast hard. Lizzie squeezed her eyes tight against the sensation as Tommy’s hand moved down to press against her, then she was pulsing against him and he was done.

He held her tight for bare moments and she stared at the desk as he put himself back together. His breathing was nearly back to normal as he fixed her skirts and tapped her on her hip.

He tried to smirk as he spoke, ‘Cup of tea, eh Lizzie?’ but Lizzie only saw the familiar sadness in his eyes. Lizzie smiled back, bright and wide as if the air between them was light and frivolous. She wanted to cradle his head in her arms and soothe him but he was barely held together as it was. 

She went in to the back and put the kettle on.


	4. Chapter 4

Five months after the funeral there was a knock on Lizzie’s door shortly after midnight. She lifted her head from staring into the fire and sighed. She’d heard no footsteps to the door and that meant there was only one person who it could be. She’d half expected him once she’d realised about the date. Tomorrow would have been their anniversary, Tommy’s and Grace’s. 

She hadn’t sat up waiting for him, although she was honest enough to know she would have even if she hadn’t developed the habit lately of looking into the fire when she ought to be in bed and letting all kinds of thoughts drift through her mind without taking any time to check them in any way. 

When she opened the door, he was leaning against the door frame, his thumbs tucked into the watch pocket of his waistcoat. He looked exhausted. 

‘Can I come in Lizzie?’

It was rare that Tommy ever asked a question in a way that you thought you had the option of refusing, but here he was, asking.

Lizzie opened the door wider and nodded, ‘Come on, don’t let the cold in.’

He came into the room and she could smell the frigid night air on his coat, felt the faint touch of cold whisper around her ankles as Tommy pushed the door back into its frame.

Lizzie fed a bit more coal onto the fire. The flames flared up making the shadows stretch across the ceiling and Lizzie blinked against the surge of heat, groping behind her for the wooden frame of her armchair as she resumed her seat. 

Tommy was still, watching her.

She tilted her head against the tall back of her chair, trying to assess his mood. 

He walked to the matching high-backed chair on the other side of the fire and began to remove his coat, methodically un-buttoning, until he was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Then he took the pin out of his collar and removed it, tossing the collar onto his overcoat which lay over the table. He performed these actions with an unhurried ease that Lizzie saw was counterfeit. He would have fooled Esme or Michael, but no-one else. 

It was rare to see Tommy without his collar these days. Lizzie could see the pale skin of his collarbone and the faint redness where his razor must have scuffed the skin of his throat earlier that day. He needed another shave now, the dark stipple of re-growth emphasised the pallor of his face and the fineness of his eyes. He settled his arms against the wooden rests of the chair and leant his head back, eyes closed. His dark lashes disappeared against the shadows under his eyes. Lizzie watched him for a moment, then returned her gaze to the fire. When the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the quarter hour, Lizzie got up and began to ready the house for the night. She busied herself in this way for a few minutes and Tommy sat still and quiet. Lizzie stepped to the front door, slid the bolt and drew the curtain across it to keep out the draught, then she banked the fire and set the guard.

When she straightened, Tommy finally moved. He tugged on the hem of her skirt, turning her towards him. He manoeuvred her between his spread legs and settled his hands about her waist. Lizzie could feel the weighty stillness of them where the curve of her hips began. When she looked down into his face he was staring back at her, eyes open and wide and desolate. Lizzie swallowed and slid her hands to the back of his neck as Tommy shut his eyes and rested his head against her belly. His fingers tightened against her skirt and then relaxed. Lizzie began to stroke her hands through his short hair as his shoulders shook. She stood, rocking him against her and listening to his almost-silence until she watched the fire die.


	5. Chapter 5

When Grace had been gone for ten months, Tommy asked her if she would come back to the Big House with him. They had had a busy week and it had taken Lizzie all day to finish her letters, interrupted as they were by, in turn, Polly (bored and looking for distraction), Esme (looking for John) and a young lad running a message from Charlie at the canal. Tommy had been his usual demanding self, issuing orders, asking for tea, shutting his door to make phone calls then opening it again to mither her and stop her getting any work done. She really was in no mood for any more Shelby’s that day. 

But Lizzie was nothing if not a long-suffering fool to herself and she took a moment to mutter curses under her breath before nodding stiffly at him.   
‘But you’ll have to run me home first Tommy. I’m not filling the neighbour’s mouths tomorrow. I want to pack a bag and come straight into the office in the morning.’

Tommy laughed and pointed at her with his cigarette.

‘So respectable Lizzie. Told you before, fuck ‘em. None of their business.’

Lizzie put her hand on her hip and glared. ‘Easy for you to say Mr Shelby, no-one dare look at you sideways. Any of you. The rest of us mortals have to be a bit more careful.’

Tommy nodded at her and Lizzie could see that he was pretending to take her seriously whilst taking the piss. 

She was annoyed with him so let the sharpness bleed into her words ‘Do you want me to come or what? I have got a life of my own you know.’  
Tommy stepped up to her and looked her in the eye. ‘I know Lizzie, I know.’ Then he kissed her on the cheek and tossed her her hat.

‘Let’s go.’  
~~~  
At the House Lizzie gave her bag to Mary who would take it to the room down the hall from Tommy (and Grace’s) room and not far from the room Tommy now used. Lizzie didn’t think too much about it, the various bedrooms. She understood he was trying to tell her something, warn her in some way, not to mistake anything that happened between them for something serious, something that would be shared in the way he had shared things with Grace, or even May. (Oh yes, Lizzie had known all about May). Lizzie harboured no illusions about her place in the scheme of things. Tommy, familiar and known as he was had many quirks and she’d found it best to just go with the flow. He was a law unto himself, always had been.

Tommy went up to read to Charles whilst Lizzie caught up with Mary and helped with the dinner. Mary told her, in scandalised whispers what she’d heard about ‘that Russian lot’ and Lizzie kept her counsel and made noises of agreement and interest when needed. Lizzie had seen and heard so much, guessed at some and Tommy had told her a little. Well, she’d seen the state that Duchess one had got him into. Tommy, like most men, liked sex, but the Duchess had shocked him. Underneath the toughness, the ruthlessness and the rage, Tommy was fairly conventional.

They shared a pleasant dinner together in the kitchen, Tommy listening without comment to Mary and Lizzie chat about this and that. Normally, Tommy dined in the dining room and Mary waited on him there, but sometimes he used Lizzie’s presence as an excuse to sit in the kitchen and eat at the big, scrubbed table. With Lizzie there, Mary was just comfortable enough to eat with them, probably because something about eating in the kitchen made Tommy eat more and drink less and that pleased Mary who saw it as her God-given duty to keep Tommy from dropping into an early grave from drink or malnutrition. Tommy seemed to be in an unusually indulgent mood because he ate half of the food put before him and didn’t immediately get up and leave at the domestic chit chat between the women. Instead, Lizzie helped Mary clean up whilst Tommy stepped out to check on the horses. 

Mary held out her hand to Charles, who was drooping with tiredness and she took him outside to say goodnight to his father. Lizzie could hear the indistinct sounds from within the kitchen and soon enough Mary shouted ‘Goodnight’ to Lizzie and took Charles up to bed. After settling him in bed, Mary would climb the stairs to her room and remain there until the chilly dawn required fires, and breakfast and the resumption of the steady daily routine. 

Lizzie finished putting away the dining things and wiped her hands on a kitchen cloth. The open kitchen window showed a pink lucent sky dimming into violet grey. The swoosh of roosting birds was in contrast to the chattering sharpness of their cries and Lizzie breathed in the scent of grass, horses and cooling stone. She could feel her chest rise and fall with her breath and, underneath, the calm thud thud of her heart. Moments passed. The scrape of boot against the flagstones brought her back to herself and she looked over her shoulder to see Tommy, hands in his pockets, watching her from the doorway. 

‘A penny for your thoughts?’

‘Only a penny, Tommy? Thought I’d be worth more than that.’ He smiled and moved from the doorway, hands still in his pocket. 

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He took his right hand out of his pocket and waved it to show the matter was still open to debate. Now the smile was wider, but softer. The hard groove that usually pushed his mouth into a vicious pout had disappeared. Lizzie’s heart fluttered against her ribs.

Lizzie drew herself up, lifting her chin to tell him what she thought of that remark when he reached out his hand and gently pushed her jaw back up, making her teeth meet with a soft clack.

‘Something made you go all soft-eyed Lizzie. Was it me or have I got competition?’

They both knew that there was only one answer to that question as far as Lizzie was concerned, but that tangle of feelings didn’t seem to matter, nor to weigh heavily, in this moment. 

Lizzie rolled her eyes and Tommy smiled. They stood for a space of time, sharing the quiet, listening to the settling evening and Tommy tilted his head as if to a sound only he could hear. He shut his eyes. Lizzie’s hand clenched into her skirt as she watched him. She’d seen this stillness before, at odd times, since Grace had gone. Every instinct in Lizzie told her it was about Grace, but she couldn’t have said how she knew. Was he listening for Grace? The wife he’d never hear again? His face was smooth and impassive but his utter stillness froze her breath in her chest. His eyes were grief and pain and heartbreak and he did not try to hide it. He simply stood there and looked at Lizzie. Then he blinked and his eyes shuttered and the feelings were put away. The corner of his mouth twisted slightly and Lizzie knew something light and common place would chase away this moment of shadow.

He opened his eyes and tilted his elbow towards her, his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

‘Miss Starke?’

The rush of Lizzie’s heart jumping under her ribs was so powerful that Lizzie took a half-gasp in to speak.

‘Mr Shelby.’ With a nod Lizzie slipped her arm into Tommy’s and they left the kitchen to its rest and went to drink whisky by the parlour fire.


	6. Chapter 6

Lizzie was disgusted. With Tommy, with herself, with the whole fucking lot of them. For once, just for one fucking time, Lizzie had thought that they might have had a minute’s peace to honour Grace, but no. In ruthless honesty with herself – and Lizzie always tried to be honest with herself because there was no bloody point doing anything else- she was less concerned with honouring Grace than Charles and Tommy getting a bit of time to do so, but she knew for Tommy the event was tied up with all kinds of other wrangling, shenanigans and plain criminality. One thing leading to another as it did and the Blinders being knee deep in enemies, betrayals and fucking Cossacks of all things to stay well away from, Lizzie had thought she’d seen it all. But no. Her she was a fucking ex-prostitute, dragging herself up through life, by means of a notorious family of gangsters who’d stop at nothing to succeed - she thought she had a realistic view of the way things were. She was way off, out of her depth, mind struggling to catch up with it all, who was who, whose side everyone was on, but this? This was total fucking mayhem.

Lizzie had gathered up the bundles of money, her mind racing, hearing the sound of police vans outside and knowing that there wasn’t much time. She ran down to the cellar and threw the money in the safe, switching the dial and turning the lock automatically. She could hear Esme and Linda’s screams upstairs, Arthur and John cursing and the police shouting over them all. 

She stood hands twisted back, gripping the sides of her neck as she tried to contain her own shock and confusion. One minute they were all sitting there, still reeling from the day before and the terror for Charles and the panic of so much happening so quick, the next everyone reacting to the words from Tommy, talking about enemies and governments and spitting out charges for Arthur, John, Michael, Polly. 

Only a few weeks ago, her, Polly, Esme, Ada and Linda, all thinking they’d reached some kind of position of being counted, their ideas listened to – well, sometimes, at least- and, well, Tommy had wiped the floor with them notions. Tommy listened to no-one, took no account of anything but his own judgement and look where that had got them all. 

Lizzie hadn’t known where to look. Linda was heartbroken, her belly trembling with the effort of trying to contain her feelings, Esme was looking from face to face, rage and bitterness making her soft form jerky and desperate, trying to grasp that they were taking John. Polly…well, Lizzie couldn’t find words for what Polly looked like. She had a fleeting certainty that Tommy was in peril from that quarter but Polly was going the way of the others so God knows what would happen. 

Lizzie knew she should go upstairs, see for herself, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t bear it. Tommy’s words rattled around, ‘Trust me brother, trust me,’ and the desperate hope on Arthur’s face, on John’s too, as they were trying to comfort their wives all the while looking back at Tommy, their Sergeant, their leader, their brother, to make it all right, the curses and disbelief jostling to drive out their hope. And Lizzie had seen it all, knew it intimately, that fervent instinct to trust him, to hope in him when all the evidence said he was the last man on earth any of them should trust. 

But most of all Lizzie was disgusted with herself. Because she had learnt that Tommy would take all you had to offer, then ask for more, take that and come back again, leaving you trampled and full of self-loathing for not saying no. She had hated him when he had took John from her, she had hated him more when he forced her to see that her own feelings were just not strong enough to keep John, and she carried on hating him over and over until she knew she loved him, in no kind of way that would ever be good for her, all the while being pulled in closer and closer because it was what she wanted; to please him, to give him what he needed, to live for that.

And she didn’t know how she’d forgive herself. Not for her loving him, she’d accepted her own darkness and why it centred around him long since, but for the leap of joy she’d felt, the flush of hope and happiness in that moment when their eyes met. When he’d told them all (and she did not forget the jokes at her expense, the snide digs from Esme and Polly about her past, the sneers from Michael, the frank appraisal from Arthur when he was bored) that she, Lizzie, was the only one to help him through, what had he said? ‘…because some nights, it was you, that stopped my heart from breaking. No-one else.’ And Lizzie hated him again for that declaration. For knowing that was what she wanted, for understanding that the words would fill her up, would warm her and make her keep her head up when the world judged her and found her wanting. She hated him as hopelessly as she loved him, because while her head swam with his words and the look in his incredible eyes, the cold, hard part of her saw his calculation: in making sure of her love and loyalty before he was forced to tear down that of the family.

And now she had to swallow it down and choke on it because the ruthless bastard was upstairs, waiting in the now-silent house, waiting for his loyal ally to allow herself to be made use of, all over again.


End file.
